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Part I and
Part II***Note from the Management The following entry contains descriptions of functions that may push the comfort zone of some friends and family members. Please proceed at your own caution and you may need a cup of Clorox to wash some of the images out of your mind. K.H. Also, I know that Maya is already home and still doing quite well, but I feel that I need to finish the entire story to give you the description of how she became our daughter.The ShotSo we had the syringes, the vials and the knowledge to proceed with trying to give Mother Nature a little nudge. The information provided by the clinic was a user-guide telling us when and what was supposed to be used. During the first week we were to use the smaller needles that boosted the egg count.
These weren't so bad, the needles slid in with ease and as long as I didn't think about what I was doing it wasn't that bad. We had out nightly routine before bed of ice, fill the syringe and then inject. During the week we had to drive in super early to the clinic so the technician could monitor the follicle growth. Everything was proceeding well. C's insides were filling up nicely with a dozen or so well-formed candidates.
The technician told us that everything was proceeding nicely and we were on track for the trigger shot. The next week or so was business as usual as we continued out countdown to the big shot. To remind you, the trigger shot what is used to shake the tree so that all of the ever-increasing eggs would be delivered for action.
It was Wednesday night I believe we were trying the first shot. All day we had uneasily joked about what we were going to do that night. I told her that I had been drinking caffeine all day and my hands were just shaking with excitement.
We went to bed early that night. C showered up while I went to the fridge to get the needle and vials. I sat in the bedroom with a washcloth of ice, the two vials and the BFN (Big Freakin' Needle) . C had gotten out of the shower and was in the bathroom with an ink pen drawing a circle on her butt for the landing zone of the BFN. I took the first needle out and used it to suck up the prescribed amount of liquid and injected it into the second vial and let it mix. I changed the needle to the BFN and I was ready for action.
In Part II I really tried to do the BFN justice, but let me reiterate the size of this thing. If you have seen the movie Pulp Fiction, remember the scene where Uma was OD'ing and she had to have her chest plate pierced to inject the adrenalin to the heart? Well, it wasn't that bad but I was probably just as nervous as the guy in the film.
C came out of the bathroom and I could sense the fear from her.
K: You ready?
C: No.
K: Want the ice?
C: Yes.
I gave her the ice and she held it against her skin. This shot is intramuscular (hence the BFN) which meant I had to pierce her butt cheek and sink it in to the hilt of the syringe.
K: Let me see where I am doing this.
C: Right here.
K: Whoa!
C wasn't 100% sure where she wanted the shot. She knew it was going to be sore tomorrow and she wanted to get it right. Her cheek looked like the interlocking rings of the Olympic Games.
K: Uh, which one?
C: This one here. (She pointed to the middle ring.)
K: Where's the pen? I want to X out the other ones.
We were ready to do this. She stretched out on the bed and started fake hyperventilating in anticipation. I started real hyperventilating. I tapped all of the bubbles out and listened to C groan.
K: Ready?
C: Do it.
K: You sure?
C: Do it!
I plunged the needle deep into her skin and it is a sensation I will never forget. I could feel the metal work its way into her cheek. I did a quick check for blood in the plastic and then pushed the plunger in and pulled the syringe up and out all in one motion. I then almost threw up. In the bathroom we have a hazardous waste bin that we put all the spent needles. With all the vials and needles and medical directions our bathroom was starting to look like a Skid Row that smelled like Bath and Body Works. I composed myself, grabbed some tissues and came back into to check on C. She was still lying on her stomach while I dabbed some of the blood that came out of the injection site which was starting to swell and was still pink from the ice.
K: You good?
C: I think so.
K: Let's go to bed.
The CupAfter the trigger is processed, the next step is well, pollinating the flower. Obviously, we have relied on science up to this point so it was no different that the process would be clinical, unemotional and quantifiable. With most normal couples, this would be the case but this is us so we had an interesting journey to produce a specimen.
First, there was the cup; small, translucent and plastic. It came with a sealed protective lid and a label on the side so that I would remember that it was mine and not the cream cheese left in the fridge for Sunday morning bagels.
I tried to explain to my friend Clay what I had to do. He knew the process somewhat but I needed a little guy time to fully talk out the hesitance that I was feeling. Our conversation went something like this:
K: Hey, Clay. Have a second?
C: Sure, what’s up?
K: Well, you know all the shots and everything that we have been going through since we’ve pulled the goalie (our hockey analogy for trying to start a family)
C: Yes.
K: Well, it’s go time.
C: What, do you mean?
K: It’s time to produce and get it going?
C: You need advice on getting it going? Well, Kevin, when two people really love each other they sometime take their relationship to physical level
K: Come on, asshole.
C: Man, I was going to say maybe that was the reason you have been having problems.
K: Seriously. I need to produce a “sample” for the clinic.
C: OK.
K Well, I have to do it in a cup…in the car…while driving.
C: …. (muffled laughter)
K: I don’t know how to do it—well I know how to do it, but it is a little weird for me.
C: Come on, it can’t be that bad. Just take the cup in one hand and use the other to produce.
K: I am not sure I can do it.
C: It’s easy. You take a firm grip of that cup and you say: ‘Cuppy, you are a naughty cup, you bad cup. You little environment wrecker of post-consumer waste and trash.’ And before you know it you will be finished.
K: Uh, thanks Clay.
Really, he was very helpful in making me feel like a complete idiot, just what friends are for in the low times. Thanks Clay – When I look back on the beach that is our friendship I am sure there will only be one set of footprints in the sand.
So, the big day came (sorry) and C and I found ourselves in the Saturn in pre-rush hour traffic crusing down Highway 94 with a brown paper bag, a sterilized plastic receptacle and me and my dignity riding shotgun. Like a Domino’s the specimen had to be there in less than 30 minutes or I would have to do the ‘Walk of Shame’
Sidebar –Check out the diagram below. The back of the clinic was setup with two probe rooms for ultrasounds, a specimen collection center and what we have coined to be the ‘Room that Has No Name’ or Jehova, depending on how sacreligios I was feeling that day. In between Jehova and the specimen collection area there was a string of about 25 seats side by side on both walls of the room. These chairs were almost always filled with women waiting for ultrasounds.
(Click for larger image)
The RHNN is where fresh specimens were collected. I have not actually been in this room, nor did I want to, but from the glimpses I had into this forbidden chamber I could make out a TV, some nudie magazines, boxes of tissue and a couch (leather of course) . The only sign on the door was one that said “Absolutely No Admittance when Door is Closed” – translation HEY EVERYONE THE GUY THAT IS ABOUT TO COME OUT OF THIS DOOR WAS PUNCHING HIS CLOWN.
As you can see above, the ‘Walk of Shame’ consists of opening the door and carrying your little brown bag holding your plastic cup holding your baby juice across the 3-mile long passageway of women who do not feel sorry for you (remember they are getting the shots and the probe) and depositing it in the waiting hands of a small trollish woman.
Being who I am whenever I would see this poor unfortunate soul traversing the dark divide I would:
a) Shout ‘Dead Man Walking’
b) Slap him on the back and say ‘Good job, soldier’
c) Gross everyone out and try to shake his hand
d) Say, “I feel your pain, my man, I just call her Cuppy and buy her dinner later”.
As you can imagine, I did not want to subject my fragile ego to such conditions so I took the high-road by sneaking in my specimen quietly. Don’t get me wrong, my benevolently, sinister nature wanted to have a little fun by making others outside the dreaded door feeling uneasy instead of my self.
I imagined a situation where instead of meekly going about my business I would leave the door cracked open just slightly, ajar enough that all the people in the waiting room could catch partial glimpses of movement. I would then get on my knees in front of the couch and start bellowing in my best Tony Little infomercial voice:
“Yes! Yes! Come on! Whoo! Who does that cup work for! Yeah, come on cup!”
I would then rhythmically slap the leather sofa every few seconds screaming more and more intense language punctuating every exclamation with a slap or a verbal “Whoo!” After a good 4 -5 minutes of this booming language I would be silent. I would then crack the door open and stick my head out a little bit dramatically wiping my forehead with a tissue.
K: “Courtney, could you come in here for a second?”
Of course this is my scenario so my wife would actually come in and help me replay the entire scene, but in reality, I know she (or I) would never be able to do this. For the grand finale I would fling the door open and with cup held high triumphantly march to the specimen collection door looking into the faces of every woman in the waiting room making them shrink behind their Cosmopolitan magazines.
Yes, there was a lot of time to daydream waiting for the tests…
Back to the car-- We didn’t say a word as we drove through morning traffic and entered the toll road. Neither one of us was awake yet and neither one of us wanted to really talk about the manner at hand (pun intended). Remember the specimen had to be there in less than 30 minutes for optimal results.
We did not have a set place to start the process so under normal traffic conditions I was supposed to begin right around Willow Rd. In fact I tried to convince Courtney that if this worked and we had a girl we would have to call her Willow.
K: Come on, Willow is a great name and think about the great story she could tell her friends.
C: No.
We passed the designated overpass and I tried to go to work. At 19 not much more than a stiff breeze could get a guy going; in the mid-20’s maybe a little visualization; now that I am in my 30s, sitting in a Saturn wearing my conservative work attire and fondling a plastic cup with one hand and well you get the idea. I was a little bit at a loss and wish I would have taken some sort of little blue pill or bought a copy of ‘Hot Teenage Disposable Cup Monthly’ for the trip.
C could tell I was feeling a little flat (pun intended) and I could see the concern on her face.
She had not had coffee yet that morning so she was not really interested even though her heart was in the right place. Besides, the Saturn is a manual transmission and that is just one too many stickshifts to have to contend with in the early morning especially without caffeine coursing through your veins.
I won’t go into the gory details or descriptive verses of my little polyfluorocarbon tryst; but I will say this – Courtney was very helpful actually. I never realized how low to the ground our Saturn was until she started yelling:
C: Truck on the right!
C: Passing a semi!
You get the idea. We both adjusted our speed to be able to give myself the privacy I needed and I was able to be done and cap the cup by the time the off-ramp was approaching.
Because my specimen was coming from off-site, I was able to go to the woman in the front desk and just hold up the brown paper bag and she wordlessly pointed the side door where I could sidestep the ladies waiting for an ultrasound and make my deposit…again. (Man, this stuff writes itself)
Unfortunately, the first time wasn’t that easy. I had forgotten to fill out the label on the side of the specimen cup as well as the label I had to hand in to the medical tech. So, yes, in front of a room of women with a pen that barely wrote I had to try and write out all 13 letters of my full
name on a label on the side of a specimen jar. Crimson-faced I turned in my jar and retreated out the door in which I came with my metaphorical tail between my legs.
Yes, this was hard to write and difficult to convey and I know you all will never try to embarrass me with this information because, like Clay, you are my friends. In the end though it does not really matter to me because “Ha Ha” the best part now is that whenever any of you drive past Willow road you will now have to chuckle thinking of me and my cup.
At some point soon- Journey to Maya (part 4): Things get a little more serious
